Adam looked about him at the office, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Yes. And I suppose your members don’t flinch at a thousand pounds a year for the privilege of spending yet more money here.’
‘Of course not. In fact, it’s a simple way of keeping the club the way the members like it.’
‘Reserved for the rich.’
Allegra raised her eyebrows, but Adam’s expression was still innocent and his tone neutral, as though he was not implying any criticism of Colette’s. ‘It all depends how one wants to spend one’s money, I suppose,’ she said a little icily. ‘There’s no requirement to be rich in order to join.’
‘But it helps. Anyway, that’s the spirit of Colette’s, isn’t it? Luxury is always expensive, and that’s what makes it worth having.’
‘Exactly.’ Allegra smiled, mollified. ‘Now, you haven’t explained exactly why you want to see me. I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not looking for any promotion for the club.’
‘I don’t just offer promotion,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘If I did, I’d call the company Hutton Promotions. What we do is wider than that. We offer a consulting service as well.’
Allegra burst out laughing. ‘You want to offer consultancy to us! We’re the oldest, most respected club in London. Dozens of people have tried to emulate Colette’s, and none
have
succeeded in getting our recipe just right. I’m beginning to think you might be some kind of corporate spy, trying to weasel in and find out the secret of our success.’
Adam smiled broadly and his face lit up, making him look quite different. He laughed too, a surprisingly deep sound. ‘I can see it seems a bit ridiculous when you put it like that. But you need to watch out that success doesn’t make you complacent. Have you got a website, for example?’
‘No. I don’t think we need one.’ Allegra sounded insouciant, but the truth was that David was resisting her ideas for a website as hard as he could. He thought they were vulgar, and a way for nosy people to get a glimpse inside the club.
Adam shrugged and she noticed his broad shoulders, remembering what he looked like underneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. He had a smooth chest with only a few small curls of hair in the middle …
He said, ‘It’s the kind of service your members will expect. Top-level businessmen are always at the forefront of technology. They live all over the world, travel widely. They don’t want a newsletter posted to them, they want to be able to access club information quickly and easily, get their secretaries to book tables online … all sorts of things. We could do that for you. All you’d need to do is brief me on what you want, and I could liaise with designers and website builders.’
‘OK.’ Allegra nodded. ‘Is that all?’ She was still sceptical about this.
Honestly, I think I could manage to get a website going on my own
.
‘No.’ Adam leant back in his chair and fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘I was wondering about the average profile of your members. It occurred to me that it probably swings towards the ageing, wealthy businessman who brings his clients to Colette’s to show them a bit of London’s famous high life.’
Allegra kept her expression neutral, staring at him across the desk. She rolled her tortoiseshell Mont Blanc between her fingers. Then she said, ‘We have plenty of female members and lots of family events are celebrated in the club. We have engagements practically every week – getting engaged in Colette’s over a bottle of club champagne is virtually de rigueur. There are wedding receptions, private dinners, birthday parties. Our members often give memberships as gifts to their children for their eighteenth birthday.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Adam. ‘And how many of those children actually come here? My guess is they don’t exactly flock here. They’re at Mahiki and Boujis and Whisky Mist.’
‘Maybe they are,’ she said carelessly. ‘But we don’t intend to become that kind of establishment.’
‘So once all the wealthy ageing businessmen are too old to come out, or retired, or dead, who is going to take their place?’
‘I told you, we have a waiting list. Plenty of people wish to be members.’
‘But I’d make a bet that almost all the people on your waiting list are more of the same: middle-aged chaps who’ve made their pile and like the upper-crust coddling that Colette’s offers: it’s quiet, it’s comfortable, it’s reliable.’
Allegra said nothing.
I know what you’re saying. But I’ve already got plans
…
‘I think I’ve made my point anyway,’ Adam said quietly after a moment. ‘You want to know what I can offer and I’m showing you that I’ve got a perspective on your problems – problems you might not even know you’ve got – and perhaps some solutions. There was one other thing …’
‘Yes, Mr Hutton?’ Allegra tried to sound polite but couldn’t help an edge creeping into her voice. She didn’t like hearing any implied criticism of Colette’s, even if she secretly
agreed
with it. He didn’t realise that there was no way David would ever allow his club to change.
‘Please – call me Adam.’ He looked down at his leather-bound notebook for a second and then fixed Allegra with his clear, perceptive gaze. ‘I’ve heard you’re looking around for another property. You’re perhaps thinking of expansion. Is that right?’
Allegra gasped. ‘How on earth did you hear about that?’
He smiled. ‘It’s my job to know what’s going on.’
‘But … but …’ She was astonished. She had discussed her plans with David and they had viewed two likely sites, but without telling anyone else what they were up to.
‘I’m interested,’ he said bluntly. ‘Is this going to be along the same lines as Colette’s – or something new?’
Allegra gaped at him then said, ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t intend to discuss any of this with you.’
‘Very well. That, of course, is entirely your privilege.’ He stood up. ‘But please think about it, that’s all I ask. You have an amazing brand in the Colette’s name and image. I think expansion is a wonderful idea, and you’ve got every chance of making a new club really appealing to the younger market. I’d love to help you, and contribute to your success.’
Allegra stood up as well. ‘Thank you for coming by, Mr Hutton. I appreciate your comments and I have your details. I’ll be in touch if ever I think I need your help.’ She held out her hand.
Hutton’s eyes sparkled and he laughed lightly as he shook it. ‘You’re thinking it will be a cold day in hell before that happens, aren’t you? But don’t give up on me. And call any time. And, may I say, this meeting was almost as enjoyable as our first.’
‘Tyra will show you out,’ Allegra said crisply, and watched thoughtfully as he strode out of her office.
Chapter 43
London
2008
ROMILY THOROUGHLY ENJOYED
the day, from the moment the team arrived at the Chester Square house: the make-up artist, hairdresser, stylist, photographer, lighting technician and, of course, the journalist. They came early to survey the house and discuss locations and set up shots. It was important to select the rooms where Romily would be looking casual, in Marni trousers and a Rochas silk tunic blouse, or Theory two-tone tank dress with a Matthew Williamson knit over the top, and those where she would be in glamorous cocktail dresses and evening gowns.
While these important decisions were being made, Romily was interviewed. As the hairdresser worked her magic and the make-up artist selected the colours and brands she wanted from her vast trunk, the journalist sat on the bed and asked questions, recording Romily’s every word.
‘Is it true that you’re Sebastian LeFarge’s muse?’ the young reporter asked, looking impressed despite herself.
‘Oh, yes,’ Romily said, watching her in the mirror as the hairdresser brushed her hair out into glossy straightness. ‘Dear Sebastian. I spend a week a year with him on Capri, helping him sort out his latest ideas. And we always have at least another week on his yacht … such a dear little thing,
almost
a toy. From that, he seems to get an awful lot of inspiration.’ She added hastily, ‘And, of course, I adore his clothes.’
‘Is your life busy?’ The reporter was scribbling notes despite the tape recorder.
‘
So
busy … you can imagine, with all my travelling.’
‘Many other women in your position feel a calling to some kind of work,’ the journalist said almost shyly. She really was very young, Romily noticed. ‘Do you ever feel that?’
‘My position is a demanding one,’ Romily replied solemnly. ‘I’m well aware of that. I feel that I can lead by example, showing women that it is possible to be elegant and lady-like. I like to think I can inspire
grace
. That’s really my life’s work.’
‘I see.’ The journalist gave her a sycophantic smile. ‘How wonderful.’ This kind of interview was not exactly hard-hitting – nothing Romily said would be challenged, she knew that. It was why she had picked this magazine. Who wanted to be ripped to shreds, after all?
When the interview was finally concluded, the reporter told her that it would be in the following week’s issue.
‘Oh, good,’ Romily said happily. ‘The sooner the better.’
Imogen saw it at the news-stand as she walked to work. She stopped dead on the pavement, forcing a man behind her to sidestep quickly, and stared at it as he muttered a curse at her.
The glossy image and text seemed to shout at her: there was Romily in an exquisite grey tulle gown standing in a luxurious white drawing room.
Heiress Romily de Lisle invites us into her stunning home and tells us about her glamorous life
.
‘I’ll take this, please,’ she said politely to the vendor, fishing in her coat pocket for some money.
She didn’t look at it until she got to work, then she pored
over
it, turning the slippery pages quickly until she found what she was looking for. It was the main feature, spread over several pages, with a long interview. She read it once, then she read it again, and then she lingered over every picture, drinking in every detail, until her senior lawyer came in and she hustled it under the desk.
From the sound of it, Romily couldn’t be happier: travelling the world, socialising and buying clothes. Imogen never would have thought it, but apparently Romily had no desire to do anything else with her life but ‘inspire grace’. Imogen shook her head in disbelief. There was no mention of Mitch but a coy reference to someone called Vincente di Auguro, who was apparently her boyfriend. She looked stunning in every photograph, her skin impossibly smooth, her hair glossy, her figure perfect. And the clothes were a dream: haute couture evening gowns and designer pieces.
But it was painful to see her. It brought back memories of their happy times together and a painful recollection of their rift.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this
, Imogen thought.
We were supposed to be friends for ever. I wasn’t supposed to learn about her life from the pages of a magazine
…
She couldn’t help yearning for the days when the three of them faced the world together.
Malik brought a copy of the magazine into Mitch’s office where his boss was sitting behind his desk, staring intently at a screen. A frown creased his brow and his mouth was set in a line that showed his concentration.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mitch, but I thought you might like to see this.’ Malik put the magazine on the leather desktop, pushing it gently across as though it might explode.
‘Huh?’ Mitch looked confused and then, as he clocked the cover, his expression changed, first to surprise and then, for a fleeting moment, to something like tenderness, followed
immediately
by sardonic amusement. ‘What the fuck has she done this for?’
He looked up at Malik. ‘I think she may be reminding me of her existence.’ He picked up the magazine unopened and threw it in the rubbish bin. ‘Well, she’s wasting her time. As if I could ever forget.’
Chapter 44
ALLEGRA UNFURLED THE
architect’s drawings and spread them out across the table in the dining room of David’s Knightsbridge house.
‘This is what I thought we could do to the interior. We need to provide different spaces for different moods and activities. See? On the top floor, a restaurant with a retractable ceiling. This not only gives a lovely outside space in good weather, but also gets around the smoking ban. People will be able to enjoy their cigarettes at their tables without bothering other diners.’
‘Yes, that’s civilised,’ David said, bending over the polished wood to inspect the plans. He loathed the smoking ban and, after a lifetime of abstinence, had even taken up puffing away on small cigars after dinner to show his disgust. The ban had meant that they’d had to open up a small outside space on the other side of the dance floor in Colette’s so that members did not have to ascend to street level in order to enjoy the expensive contents of the club humidor. David railed against the indignity of this, and the inconvenience to those dancing, but the law was the law.
Allegra was bursting with enthusiasm as she pointed out the design features. ‘After midnight it will become a dance floor and people can get late night meals in the restaurant downstairs. The kind of stuff you want to eat when you’ve
been
drinking: bacon and eggs, hamburgers and chips, chilli con carne … comfort food.’
David peered at the plans. ‘But what on earth is this?’ He tapped them with a bony finger.
‘A private viewing room – you know, like a small cinema.’
‘What!’ He looked outraged. ‘What on earth do people want with a private cinema? Are you going to show dirty films?’
Allegra laughed. ‘No, of course not. Members might very well work in film or television or advertising, and want a place where they can show off what they’ve done.’
David harrumphed and stroked the head of his black Labrador, Caius, who sat beside him. ‘I don’t understand,’ he grumbled. ‘That sounds like work, not like fun.’
‘People mix the two nowadays,’ Allegra said reasonably.
‘Not at Colette’s.’
‘Oh, come on, David, they do it all the time! Half the members use the club for corporate entertaining, you know they do! And you can hardly blame them, with our kind of cachet. It’s impressive to bring your clients to Colette’s for the evening, isn’t it?’